It's a long way to the shop if you want a sausage roll...

Australian ex-pat trying valiantly to uphold national pride in -20C. Photo: Charles Cardinal

The title of this post is something probably only Australians of a certain age would get. It's a schoolyard twist on the lyrics to AC/DC's It's a Long Way to the Top (If You Wanna Rock 'n' Roll); just try singing it and you'll see what I mean...

Today is Australia Day, and despite all the broader political ramifications and my personal uneasiness in recognition of Invasion Day, as it is also known, I am a little more nostalgic than usual for my home country. I celebrated by listening to '80s Oz Rock and making a batch of lamingtons to share with my classmates tomorrow. Surprisingly, there are two other Australians in my class, so I am not as much of an exotic creature as usual. I also made a batch of sausage rolls for Charles and I, which turned out to be the best I've ever tasted, perhaps because I've been so deprived. Like any good immigrant, I have soulful longings for the unique tastes of the Old Country.

It's a curious thing, being an expatriate. There is all the excitement and novelty of a new country, culture, and—frequently—language to explore, but it is so often clouded with a few greying drops of homesickness, as well as the involuntary comparisons. I can't even imagine what it must be like for immigrants who have had to leave their home against their will or for the preservation of their lives.

As always, I remind myself that the purpose of this blog is to enforce a positive view of change on myself so, like a happily tipsy father of the bride, I take the view that I am not losing my own culture, but gaining a second. (Gosh, I just remembered having a jumbonormous fight with a German boyfriend in 1998, when he claimed Australia didn't have a culture. Oh, my goodness!) As I sit here, I've been contemplating just what it is that I'm invoking when I think of that mythical beast that is "Australia." In essence it seems to be wide, open spaces, a freshness of both spirit and produce, and a lack of taking anything or anyone, including oneself, too seriously. But mostly it is the wide, open spaces. Oh, and warmth!

For years I have celebrated drives through those wide, open spaces with a stop at a country bakery for a sausage roll and a Farmers' Union Iced Coffee. It was a little tradition that I made for myself somewhere along the line, to the point now when a long car trip will induce sausage roll cravings. I've managed to find a suitable iced coffee substitute here, at the ubiquitously Canadian Tim Horton's chain, but it looks like I'll be doing a little pre-trip baking from now on because there really is no suitable alternative to the sausage roll here, and 16,000km is indubitably a long trip "down the shops."

A Farewell to Oz

Change is upon me so fast and furiously at the moment that - obviously - I am not having time to write about it. Not to worry, I am stockpiling stories in anticipation of a relaxing couple of Northern Summer months ahead in which I will play catch up, even though I suspect I will be laughing at my current naiveté by August.

At the moment I am in my hometown of Adelaide, South Australia, undertaking Phase 2 of the Farewell to Oz Tour ahead of my final decampment for Canada next week (Holy Crap!) The trip has been fantastic so far, made all the sweeter by the presence of one of my besties and former bridesmaid, Morgan, who flew over from Melbourne for her first proper experience of SA.

My parents, all four of them, live in the Adelaide Hills, so my trips here these days tend to be more semi-rural than urban, though Saturday involved the mandatory Central Market/Lucia's visit, and last night the mandatory Ying Chow meal. It would be fair to say that a large part of South Australian life revolves around good food and wine.

And this has had me thinking: did the place make the girl, or was the place perfect for her? Is my love of good food and wine nature or nurture? And was I, despite so many grass-is-greener, wanderlust tendencies, in fact born into just the perfect place for me? Ever since I brought Charles here in 2010 and he fell under South Australia's spell, I have viewed my hometown far more favourably than in previous years, and entertained more often the notion of - one day - maybe moving back.

Here, currently, as possibly in a number of other places, there is a mad craze for Yotam Ottolenghi and his food. My stepmother has just returned from a trip to London and Israel to visit relatives with her mother, and went to Ottolenghi's restaurant and stopped by a number of places in Israel that he featured in his cooking show. I was just reading the Introduction to the Jerusalem cookbook that he co-wrote with Sami Tamimi and found a passage on page 9 that summed up my present navel gazing:

"It is more than 20 years since we both left the city. This is a serious chunk of time, longer than the years we spent living there. Yet we still think of Jerusalem as our home. Not home in the sense of the place you conduct your daily life, or constantly return to. In fact, Jerusalem is our home almost against our wills. It is our home because it defines us, whether we like it or not."

There is a huge part of me that will always be defined by Adelaide's gastronomic obsessions, and its most particular sensibilities.

The pictures that accompany this post are of Sunday's trip to Port Willunga, my favourite beach near Adelaide, about 45-50 minutes drive south of the city. My parents, Morgan and I popped in there after visiting my grandmother in McLaren Vale for her 90th birthday and then having an entertaining family lunch and a drive around the Vale. There is certainly something about the clear Southern light, I think it is just beautiful.

Happy Easter! Here's to celebrating (a) new life!

Things you might not have known about me, part 1: When I was a child I used to hoard my Easter eggs, whereas my brother had usually inhaled his by Easter Sunday evening. I would then slowly savour my stash over the following weeks, generally right in front of him to his great distress and my great amusement. I used to imagine that I was such a good girl, but really I was just as much of a little shit as the best of them!

I love Easter. It has always been my favourite of the seasonal holidays. It's much calmer and less loaded with expectation than the Christmas/New Year period. It's a good time to rest and recharge: for getting lost in a good book with a little pile of Easter eggs or buttered hot cross bun nearby; for going camping; or for doing what I'm up to this time around – pottering around the house doing some fix-its. Also, Charles and I started seeing each other over Easter three years ago, almost to the day, so that has further added to its charm.

Easter's metaphor of resurrection/rebirth/the-renewal-of-the-cycle-of-life gets a little confused here in the Southern Hemisphere, but I'm very happy to run with it this year because my Canadian permanent residency was approved this week.

Whoo.
Hoo!

It certainly feels very good to finally be able to put long-held plans into action. It's a little daunting, too, I'll admit. For the next few months I'll be sprucing up the house for a hopeful sale (yes, I made up my mind, here's hoping the market agrees with me), auditing all my possessions into keepers, sellers and those to be filed in the bin, squirreling cash, spending as much time as possible with friends, and winding up work, hopefully by the beginning of June. Phew!

I'm not much good at drawn out goodbyes, I prefer the Band-Aid method – walking out the gate and not looking back with absolutely no fuss or ceremony. But that's not necessarily fair on others, nor would it do justice to the incredibly curious time I have had in Cairns and all of the amazing things it has given me over the last nine years. This has been the most stable period of my life. I've worked for the same company for nearly eight years, worked in the same building for the entire nine years in fact, and I've only lived in two houses if you don't count the early months with the then-boyf's parents. Previously, I could look back every few years and the whole landscape had changed: different job, study, house, area, boyfriend, all completely changed every two to three years. Reminding myself that this kind of change used to be my norm is certainly helping in psyching myself up for the next few months. Before I go I'll find ways to honour all that has been and the natural beauty that is here, but I'll stave off sadness with the thought of all the potential lying in wait in Montréal, not to mention one rather dashing Québécois librarian.


P.S. For those of you who are curious about such things, I applied for Canadian permanent residency under the spouse category. My residency has been approved, but I still have to wait another couple of weeks to get the visa in my hot little hand. Canadian Immigration estimates that for Australians applying for this category from outside of Canada, processing should take nine months, but once my visa arrives it would have been about five months since we put in the application. Much faster than expected, but then, we are a very straightforward case ...

In contemplation of brown spirits

Goddammit, I'm sick! After walking about seven kilometres yesterday through the Plateau District, then on to Downtown and Chinatown, I've succumbed to a cold. Given that we received a nice dollop of snow last night, it's probably best I stay indoors rather than traipse around town as I was hoping to do, but when you want to be adventuring, being sick is a frustration.

One of my favourite home remedies for a cold is the old faithful: hot lemon and honey. Even if its benefits are purely psychological given the destruction of the lemon's vitamin C by the boiling water, I'll happily take that placebo effect. I usually add thin slices of fresh ginger if I have it handy, which is probably the most useful ingredient. And on the occasions when I have some joint pain (as I do today), well, then ... my secret ingredient is a generous shot of some variety of brown spirits. Joint pain? Gone!

Brown spirits—whisky, whiskey, bourbon, brandy, dark rum, etc.—are not, in general, a favourite of mine. I've just never been able to get into them. White spirits—gin, vodka, even white rum in a well-made cocktail—are fine by me, but brown spirits have either failed to appeal or drawn outright disgust. After hearing many a friend extol the virtues of a cheeky snifter in the hot lemon pot, though, I tried it and had to concede it was rather helpful. It is the only time I drink such stuff.

I am, however, exceptionally curious about whisky, particularly single malts. As a lover of food and wine, ever interested in regional variations and the impact of 'terroir', I'm intrigued by the range of flavours reported. I also love smoked foods; Lapsang Suchong tea; a properly made, smoky babaganough; smoky pinot noirs ... so the prospect of a peaty, smoky-flavoured spirit appeals greatly to me. I also have this curious fantasy: Hopefully in the northern Fall, when I have moved to Montréal permanently, Charles and I will take a road trip to the Gaspé region. There, in my mind, it will be blowing a gale and be suitably autumnal. We will stay in a B&B with lace curtains, eat lobster rolls and seafood chowder, wear cream Aran fisherman's sweaters, and I will enjoy drinking whisky as we laugh in the face of the cold. You see, my fantasies are pretty innocent, really. The only catch to this scheme is my current aversion to brown spirits.

Of course, I have a plan to overcome this. My friends Jane and Chedy are big lovers of Scotch, Laphroaig being their favourite. I am going to visit them at their Northern New South Wales multiple occupancy community (no, it's not a commune!) in April, so I shall take a bottle of Laphroaig with me and, by hook or by crook, I will enjoy the damn stuff by the time my long weekend stay is over.

For now though I see that it has passed the hopefully-acceptable time of 10am and it is still snowing in big, fat flakes. So I am off to make a pot of hot lemon and honey with a little dash of something extra. Santé!

The agonisings of an unrequited love

Dear Mavis Blue,

I am so sorry. I thought we'd be together for a very long time. In fact, I thought at one point that I might grow old with you. But life has a funny way of taking unexpected turns, and mine will soon take me a long way away from you. And you, being so set in your ways, cannot follow.

There are still so many things I would have liked to do with you: install a rainwater tank, more plantings in your garden, polishing all your floorboards afresh, replacing your remaining original ceilings, doing more about the Wet Season drainage. And there are things about you, too, that scare me: the eventual yet inevitable restumping and the re-laying of your concrete slab, what to do with the enormous Cuban Royal palm in the garden that all the neighbours want cut down but that I love like a crazy person.

In the end I choose my husband over you, as I choose him over all other things in my life. Within that choice though, I must decide whether I keep some connection with you, stringing you along, kidding us both that we may one day be reunited, or that I cut that string, freeing you up to meet someone new who will love you and care for you as I will not be able to do from the other side of the world.

Of all the ties I cut, yours will be the hardest - I am a Cancerian through and through. But it must be done, and for that I am sorry.  

I will miss you.
Beverley


This week I have been in a housework frenzy. I have a co-worker house-sitting for me while I go away next month and the tentative start to the Wet Season has seen blossoms of mould bursting forth on the ceilings, walls and architraves of my 75 year-old Queenslander like so many rose buds in spring. It's a Tropics thing, we get used to it. Kind of. I've been up close and personal with the interior with bleach, spray bottle and bucket in hand, making things nice for visitors again, and while I've been labouring I've had time to contemplate just what exactly I am going to do with this house when I move to Canada sometime later this year.

I've owned this home for a little over four years. It is my first foray into real estate. Buying my own home was something I had wanted for years, almost a decade. I was so proud of my achievement when I bought her, and also crazy shit-scared! I bought her in 2008 when the magnitude of the GFC was just beginning to become apparent here. The previous owner only had her as an investment property and just wanted to get rid of her quickly so he could buy something else. I joked at the time that I stole a house, I had paid much less than was common at that time. Unfortunately, Cairns real estate not only stagnated, its value has gone backwards over the last few years. Agents make valiant claims of a comeback soon, but I know in my heart that if I sold her now I would only get about the amount she was valued at in late 2010 and I have spent $14,000 on a new bathroom since.

I also know I am never coming back to Cairns. Even when (if?) I return to Australia, I will not be coming back here. I will be heading down south, closer to my family and most of my friends. My dilemma, obviously, is whether to keep the house or sell her. While a couple of friends have their hand up to move in, I couldn't charge in rent the full amount of my weekly mortgage repayments. That in itself is scary since I don't know when I will start working once I get to Canada. But even now, when I live with her and love her on a daily basis, there are times when I find myself petulantly resenting the sacrifices I have to make to service my mortgage. Some days it feels like entrapment. When I crunch the numbers, as I am doing with increasing frequency, all maths points to selling and accepting actually making a loss when I consider how much I have spent on renovations and mortgage repayments. Further losses may result otherwise. There are only two things that count against that: the gambler's eternal optimism that the market will improve in the next few years, and total, unmitigated sentiment. The trouble is, I love this house. Oops!

My stepmother, always a beacon of rationality in any financial storm, once sagely counselled: "Never fall in love with your house." So, Reason, where are you? I need you on this one. But Mavis Blue just has her charms, and few seem immune to them. She feels like a holiday house. Every day. She is private, and breezy, has pretty light, and French doors, and just the right amount of charmingly flaking paint (if you are into that sort of thing). And she is the most magnificent shade of blue. It is immediately calming. Every time I think of selling her I feel a wrenching in my heart.

Charles and I will sit down together while I am in Montréal and run the sums again and talk about what is and isn't possible. From 16,000km away it will be easier to make a rational decision.

I should have listened to my stepmother.